


Here lies trouble

by Wrathofscribbles



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-02-10 00:39:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18649381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: Garrett Hawke, Kirkwall's most unfortunate disaster, fully expects everything to go wrong upon meeting Fenris.What a pleasant surprise when it doesn't.





	1. Charity

**Author's Note:**

> **Big bold reminder that I don't own Dragon Age or any of its content and characters, I just play in the sandbox BioWare created.**
> 
> This will be a collection of microfics I write for this pairing. No particular plot is followed, though canon is mostly adhered to.

He expects deceit from a mage, a spell hooked ‘round his spine the minute his back is turned.  He expects greedy fingers upon the lyrium in his flesh, commanding the brands as only a mage can and bleeding him dry.  He expects a Magister, his Master, but Hawke is… neither of those things.

The big mage follows him, yes, not to corner him but… to  _guard_  him, watch his back when Fenris turns a deliberate blind eye to the shadows.  A test.   _Make your move,_ he dares and Hawke does, lays a hand on his shoulder, not his back, carefully avoiding the curling brands gleaming in the night.  Hawke offers a smile rather than a snarl, coin over chains, no collar in sight and Fenris… challenges him.  Teeth bared, ears flat back, driving into the mage’s personal space and lighting the brands himself, reaching up with cruel gauntlets to seize the throat Hawke leaves bare.

“I don’t need your  _charity,”_ he hisses and Hawke - his smile only widens, touched with baffling amusement.  It almost shocks Fenris enough to release him.   _Almost_.

“Not charity, Fenris.  It’s your share of the reward.”

His… his  _what?_


	2. Reminder

At first he thinks Hawke means to mock him with the crisp envelope bearing the Amell crest on the wax seal.  A speck of purity in the filth of a mansion he can’t bring himself to call home.  A speck tarnished the second he lays fingers on it, caked as they are in a day’s worth of grime.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s faced such subtle ridicule, letters left unattended by his former master and his underlings, Fenris too wary of a trap to even risk glancing at the scribbled nonsense.  So certain they were of his shortcomings… how is this thing from Hawke any different?

But there is no malice in those lyrium-blue eyes when Garrett picks the envelope from where it’s been thrown at his feet, calm in the face of Fenris’s offense, offering a rueful smile as he fidgets and drags a hand through his hair.

“In hindsight I should have delivered this myself to explain.  It isn’t a  _joke_ , Fenris, but a goal.  A target to aim for when your frustration bubbles over and you’re tempted to put paper to the fire instead.  One day you won’t need lessons anymore, you’ll be able to read through letters and books on your own.  And on that day… well.  I hope you’ll read  _that_  and send a reply, if you’re willing?”

* * *

Fenris tucks it away for a time, forgets about its resting place between the pages of one of Varric’s books (a guilty pleasure he will never confess to reading).

He brings it over to the desk gifted by - by his friends, yes, they are now, aren’t they? - when he stumbles across it again, doesn’t dare breathe as he breaks the seal.  Tucked away in clean folds is his name in Garrett’s spiked script, neater than he remembers.

_Fenris,_  it says,  _you’re free_.


	3. Mine

This is what he knows of Hawke:

The man has an atrocious sense of humour, truly deplorable (Fenris laughs at most of his jokes anyway).

He has a scar on his cheek visible through the stubble, a war wound granted by one angry feline in his childhood.

He dislikes apples, to Fenris's horror, and yet always keeps spare coin for three to replace his last.

He is _disgusting_ around puppies, utterly hopeless, a pile of goo folding in on himself as he coos over the yapping fluffballs, cuddling each and every one until he's hauled elsewhere.

He makes flower crowns when their travels take them to Sundermount, lyrium-blue eyes distant and sad as he remembers a fallen sister, sends them to her rest in the beyond with breath and gentle flame.

He is most ticklish around the ribs, laughing despite the blood and bruises and Fenris's efforts to bandage him up.

So long as he is awake and aware, Hawke will _ask his permission_ before directing healing magic his way, always careful.

The bastard knows how to tease him, taunt him, until Fenris gives chase and pins him to a wall, a table, the floor.  _Smug_ , until he returns the favour.

Mine, mine, _mine._


	4. Brave

This is what he knows of Fenris:

He is brave in the face of his past, choosing to ally himself with mages when it would be easier to sell them out to Meredith.  Understandable, even, to slip a dagger in their backs and remove a handful more magic users from the world.  If it were Hawke in his place, in similar shoes, he couldn't _possibly_ work alongside Templars.

Keen-eyed, observant, spotting traps before Sebastian does and the wounds they each try to keep hidden, the exhaustion they downplay, standing sentry against blades in the dark.

His trust is a hard-earned thing, a gift Hawke will not squander as long as he lives.  When all hope seems lost and his reserves empty, there Fenris is with his hand outstretched, lyrium brands alight in offer.  "Take it," he says, _I trust you._

He hates being tickled, his reaction to a careless touch too gentle something violent and wild, teeth bared and snapping as he lashes out.  Hawke doesn't ask, can hazard enough guesses to curdle his stomach, and aims for a firmer touch instead.  Not one that will bruise, though, he'd never forgive himself if he did.

There's a soft longing for the memories like silk and sand on his hands, weighted on his palms but slipping through his fingers before he can latch on.  His temper is on a shorter leash the mornings following sleepless nights, but for every barbed comment or stony silence, there is dry humour and unexpected puns, his own version of peace offerings.

_"I am not a slave!"_

He accepts Hawke standing at his side, and Hawke's aid in snapping each of the rusted, ancient chains tying him to Danarius.


	5. Betrayal

“What possessed you to go outside at this unholy hour?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Neighbourly concern.”

_“Really?”_

“Hand on heart, not a word of a lie.”

“ _Neighbourly_ concern, says the man with his hands on my feet.”

“Well, yes.  They happen to be very cold feet.  A common problem when one ventures outside, without boots, to shovel snow.”

“There’s your answer.”

“But _without boots_ , Fenris!  Have you lost your damn mind?”

“Snow is the lesser evil when the alternative is footwear, Hawke.  You know this.”

“I also know having toes is much better when all ten are attached and functioning.”

“Oh hush.  Under your care they will be.”

Which, fair enough, Hawke can’t argue with that.  He’ll stay kneeling on the floorboards all day if he has to, mana a steady trickle from his palms as he shifts his attention from one calloused foot to the other and back again, chasing away the morning chill with magic and careful pressure until Fenris is a boneless sprawl at risk of sliding right off the chair.  He’ll catch him, too, before he can hit the floor, either scoop him up or cushion the fall and either way it’ll be a win for having Fenris pressed close, content and unguarded in this ridiculous moment they have to themselves.

 _Peaceful_ , almost, up until Fenris folds over to throw his arms over Hawke’s shoulders and press his nose into the space just below his ear.  Normally a nuzzle while they cuddle, now a weapon that has the mage squawking in outrage and scrambling backward, clapping a hand to the site of betrayal.  He scowls at his lover even as he sends heat over the skin to eliminate the shock of _cold_ , only to join him in laughter seconds later.

“Ass.”

“Ah, but you like it.”

“Shut up.”


	6. Memory

It’s red sheets around him, not a pool of his own blood.

It’s a memento now, a harmless mark, not a ghastly wound emptying his veins faster than Anders can seal them.  


His breathing is steady, even, each inhale lifting Fenris’ head where it rests on his chest, ear pressed tight to scarred skin if only to hear his heartbeat clearer.

Hawke isn’t cold and silent in his arms, too weak to stir even when such a demanding healing surely hurts.  He isn’t _dying_ despite the magic Anders pours into his body, so powerful as to leave the lyrium brands in Fenris’ skin bright and burning for _hours_ afterward.

No, he’s awake and aware and _alive_ , fingers almost brutal in their work as Hawke massages the back of his neck, up over his scalp, down across his shoulders.  Over and over, promise after promise.

 _I’m here_ , he says, without uttering a word.  _I’m here and I’m not going anywhere._

Past gives way to present, slowly but surely, and Fenris breathes a sigh of relief or contentment or both, curls his arms ‘round Hawke just a little bit tighter.


End file.
